


I'm (Not) Listening

by AccidentallyTheWholeFanfic



Category: Harvest Moon, Harvest Moon and Story of Seasons Series (Video Games), Harvest Moon: Animal Parade
Genre: Completely non-indicative name though, Family, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Tragedy, Trauma, Yes that is actually a real thing, broken home, character backstory, exploding head syndrome, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccidentallyTheWholeFanfic/pseuds/AccidentallyTheWholeFanfic
Summary: Owen Samuels just wants a happy, quiet, peaceful life. But growing up in a broken home full of screaming voices and breaking glass makes that goal seem impossible. So he dreams, and does his best not to listen to his family's life fall apart day after day. A look into Owen's childhood, before Animal Parade.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	I'm (Not) Listening

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well. Here I am again! Later than I expected to be, honestly, but the ass end of 2020 ramped itself up in unexpected and stressful ways, so while I intended to get back into the writing game much sooner than this... it just didn't happen. I kept finding reasons to freeze up, or put off writing anything. Until this came to mind. While I do want to get back to Stumbling Out of the Shadows soon (ideally before Pioneers of Olive Town comes out and steals my time again), this idea, this creepy, horrible idea, just wormed its way into my mind and lodged itself there, refusing to leave until I wrote it down.
> 
> This story is based on my own personal events not only with family drama (though thankfully, not to the extent that will be depicted within), but auditory hallucinations caused by a parasomnia known as "Exploding head syndrome." And a desire to return to horror for a bit, by taking a character with a vaguely tragic past and putting my own twisted twist upon it. This might be the darkest thing I've written to date. Just be warned, it gets very grim. Listening to Silent Hill music while writing it might have had a little bit to do with that.
> 
> I originally planned to use Chase as my chew toy, but decided to go with Owen instead for reasons that make sense to me. This is a look into his life before moving to Castanet, so the connections to Animal Parade are admittedly tenuous. Yes, this is my final contribution for the fucked-up beast of a year known as 2020. I hope you enjoy this. Feel free to leave a review, if you'd like... and a happy new year to you. Maybe 2021 find us making our way out of the tunnel into the light (but, y'know, this story might not brighten a goddamn thing). Happy reading.

At eight years old, Owen Samuels was already getting called "crazy" by his friends.

But he wasn't crazy. He knew that–after all, a doctor had told him so. He heard strange noises sometimes, but so what? Some people did. Noises when he was falling asleep, noises when he was waking up... they were never real, though. He really wasn't hearing a loud, firm rapping on his door in the middle of the night. It was just his imagination.

It wasn't a ghost, a trickster, or a robber. It wasn't one of his parents, coming to apologize to him for all of the yelling and glass breaking that he might have overheard earlier– _those_ noises were real, much to his dismay, and almost expected several times a week _,_ followed by reassurance that they'd made up and they loved each other, really, and that he wasn't going to have to split up his time spent visiting them separately. Not like some of the other kids in his class. But nonetheless, he'd still had the occasional misfortune of stepping barefoot onto a piece of broken ceramic that was missed by the broom, and try as he might to ignore it, he noticed more plates and glasses going missing before they were replaced by cheap, plastic alternatives.

When he was ripped from his slumber by nobody screaming right in his ear, there was an explanation for it, the doctor said. An explanation with a silly name–who would believe in something called _exploding head syndrome?_ –but the scientists had studied it, and they said that was what it was called and even normal people got it, so he was _fine._ He was just fine.

"You see, Owen, sometimes it can be caused by things in life that make you sad or angry, or cause you stress," Dr. Saetang told him, her mellow voice having a calming effect on him. She smiled at his wide-eyed awe. "And sometimes, if your sleep pattern changes a lot, or if you have trouble sleeping through the night, it can trigger those noises. But they're all in your head. They won't hurt you, and there's nothing to be scared of. And if there are things in your life that are making you upset–" Here, Melissa and David Samuels exchanged guilty looks, "–then I want you to know you shouldn't be afraid to talk to a friend, or a trusted adult, okay?" She had to fight to keep herself from shooting a meaningful glance over in the direction of Owen's parents, but still found them in her peripheral vision. She'd spoken to them in private before, to recommend counseling. She knew someone who could help them. They'd go, they said, they heard he was great, and it would only be fair to Owen. She had a feeling they'd just been being polite.

Owen looked over at his parents for a moment as well, noting how they couldn't seem to quite meet his eyes, and nodded glumly. His heart sank. He wanted to ask if his parents could leave the room, so he could speak to Dr. Saetang alone. To pour out everything that was happening and ask her to fix it–she was a doctor, after all! Didn't she do that sort of thing, or was that another kind of doctor who fixed broken families? Would he even have time in his day for anything else if he went to talk to someone every time his parents fought? Would they keep causing this forever? Was there something _he_ could do about it? Probably not, but...

"Dr. Saetang?"

"Yes, Owen?"

Owen kicked his sneakers against the exam table and crinkled the paper in his hands, listening to it rustle. _Thump thump, rustle rustle. Thump thump, rustle rustle._ "Sometimes... when those weird noises wake me up... I feel really weird. It's scary. I feel like I can't move or breathe, and my heart feels like it's stopping but then it starts beating really, _really_ hard, and I... feel like I'm gonna die..."

He swallowed hard, and he heard someone's breath catch. His mom.

"Am I... am I gonna be okay...?"

Dr. Saetang felt her heart break for the child, but she nodded slowly. "Yes, Owen. Those are perfectly normal reactions to fear and stress, especially when you undergo a sudden shock... but you're a perfectly healthy boy, otherwise. You'll be fine... I promise you that."

He slumped in relief at her words, a little smile on his lips. "Okay... cool. Thanks."

Once again, he was sent out to the waiting room, alone, while his parents spoke with Dr. Saetang about something. As he sucked on his lollipop and wandered around, reading the various signs and charts on the walls under the receptionist's watchful eye, he tried to push the thoughts from his mind. They were talking about _him,_ he knew that much, and Dr. Saetang would see him off with that sad, helpless, pitying smile she couldn't really hide from him. That "I'm sorry" smile.

And he also knew that asking his parents wouldn't give him any answers, not on the car ride home, not ever. Everything would be fine, they'd say, knowing it wouldn't and knowing they were lying to him. They'd order a pizza, or stop at McDonald's and get him a grown-up meal instead of a Happy Meal, hoping to make him forget his worries and his questions for the moment. He'd go along with it, because what else could he do?

It was what it was. And maybe that was how it would always be. At least he'd know he wasn't alone. Emma Clemmons' parents didn't live together anymore, but her mom always had boyfriends over, so she stayed with her dad most of the time. Daichi Uemura's dad was in jail for trying to hurt them, and he and his mom lived with his grandparents now. Beto Garcia was taken away from his parents, who spent all their money on alcohol and drugs instead of food, and now he lived with his tías down the street from Owen's house. He'd been so skinny and quiet when they were in first grade; now, over a year later, he was clearly eating well and was much more talkative and happy.

Owen hoped he could be that lucky, too, and lost himself in another fantasy as he buckled himself into the backseat for another tense ride home with his mom and dad. He thanked them quietly as he took the bag with his Big Mac and fries in it, and drank his milkshake. He loved visiting his grandparents in Castanet during the summer, and they loved having him. "Stay as long as you like," they would always say, even though they all knew that wasn't possible. He had to go home and live with his parents when August rolled around. He had to say goodbye to all his friends every year, and hope they'd still be there when he came back the next summer. Kathy, Luke, Renee, Toby, Phoebe, and even that weird kid, Juli, who was still pretty fun to hang out with sometimes, even if he did dress and talk funny. He could spend all day playing with them, getting into trouble and laughing about it later!

Couldn't he just... stay there in Castanet next time, where he was happy? It wasn't far from Plainsborough. He could still keep in touch with Emma, and Daichi, and Beto, and his other friends at school. They could come visit! Castanet was way cooler than stupid old Plainsborough, anyway. Maybe Dr. Saetang could relocate there, too. Doctors did that, right? She was cool. He could tell her everything. His parents could visit... as long as they didn't fight when they were there.

At least they didn't fight on the way home this time. At least his mom didn't unbuckle her seatbelt and fling the car door open again as they were speeding down Interstate 5, threatening to throw herself out while he froze in fear in the backseat, helpless with tears streaming down his cheeks and sobs sticking in his throat as he watched his dad pull over on the shoulder to talk her down.

But this tense silence, it wouldn't last. An explosion would happen again. It always did, at some point.

The TV droned quietly from the living room as Owen padded into his room without a word. He didn't bother seeing what his parents were up to, but they weren't talking right now. They probably would later, in hushed voices, murmurs that were quiet enough that he couldn't hear what they were saying, but loud enough to ooze through his bedroom walls. He knew _those_ noises were real... he was still awake, after all.

And when it came time for him to go to bed–nine o'clock, sharp–he did so reluctantly. He hated going to sleep. Maybe it was because he didn't bother to tell his parents anymore–"Goodnight, I love you"–and trade kisses and hugs with them unless he had to. Maybe it was because he never knew when those noises would strike again, or when he'd be pulled from his sleep to overhear another argument through the walls. As he slid under the covers and clicked off his lamp, he turned over onto his side and stared at the sliver of light underneath his bedroom door. As long as that light stayed on... he knew there was a chance they'd fight.

Trying to calm himself down with the breathing exercises Dr. Saetang had taught him, he squeezed his eyes shut and spent far too long trying to fall asleep.

\------------------------

It had been a fitful and restless sleep, but Owen knew when he woke up that he'd been pulled from it all too soon anyway. A little after eleven.

The sliver of light was still there, and he heard them. He'd had a feeling he would. This time, the voices were loud and clear, and he whimpered and curled up, clamping his pillow over his head in a futile effort to drown out the noise. His eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears at bay, as they were already forming quickly.

_Don't listen, don't listen, don't listen. You can't make it stop, so just ignore it. I'm not listening, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not..._

He knew it was useless. He still heard them, angry and wounded, yelling over each other.

_"Well what the fuck was I supposed to do?! I always asked and you never wanted to talk about it, you–"_

_"–because you don't_ _**listen** _ _! You don't fucking listen, you dismiss everything I say, everything's always_ _**my** _ _fault–"_

_"No_ _**shit** _ _it's all your fault! Yeah, it is,_ _**if you could keep your fucking legs closed, it wouldn't be your fault** _ _!"_

_"_ _ **Well, maybe you DESERVED this! Okay?! Maybe I wouldn't have slept with him if you didn't drive me to it, you're always telling me everything I'm doing WRONG like you're so goddamn perfect, like you're not a complete FAILURE as a father and a husband**_ – _!"_

Glass shattered, and Owen jumped. He always jumped at the sound. Even when he knew it was coming, he never knew _when_ it was coming.

_"_ _ **You've got some nerve even trying to turn this around on me!**_ _"_ Owen heard his dad scream. More glass. He jumped again, and felt a tear slide down his face. _"_ _ **Call me a fucking failure, like our son should be proud that his mommy's a whore?!**_ _"_

A sharp slap sounded, and his dad cried out and swore.

_"Melissa, what the **fuck?! DON'T EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN–"**_

_**"Oh, what, YOU'RE the only one allowed to get violent around here?!**_ _"_ Another slap, another cry of pain. _"_ _ **Yeah, you don't like that, do you, you worthless piece of shit?!**_ _"_ Once again, glass.

The sounds got louder, more slaps and thumps and cries of pain from both of his parents, and Owen clamped the pillow over his mouth, hoping to muffle his body-wracking sobs. Threats and insults continued to fly between his parents for what felt like forever, and the minutes on his alarm clock seemed to stretch on for years and years. The sliver of light stayed on, and he thought he saw shadows dancing among them for a moment. His swollen, puffy eyes found the window, showing the dark night beyond, and he had the briefest of urges to flee through it. Just run away, find a way to his grandparents' place with the clothes on his back and leave all this behind forever.

He heard crying now, loud and open, and realized it wasn't his. His mom was wailing his dad's name now.

_" **NO!** No, you fucking go to **HELL** , Melissa! Crazy bitch, I should've let you kill yourself when you tried... maybe Owen and I wouldn't be so **FUCKING MISERABLE EVERY DAY OF OUR LIVES**!"_

Owen buried his face into the pillow now, shaking uncontrollably. His dad's footsteps stormed past his door, shadows shifting through the light. He heard his parents' bedroom door slam, and his mom's sobbing growing louder.

Eventually, it tapered off as well.

He lay in bed, watching the door, breathing slowly. The exercises weren't helping. His heart was racing. His mom's feet never passed his bedroom door, and eventually, the sliver of light was clicked off without another sound. He knew she'd be sleeping on the couch tonight. One of them usually did after a big fight, and this had been the biggest yet. The house was dark and quiet, save for the blood rushing in his ears.

Another night in the Samuels household. He was glad tomorrow was Saturday.

\------------------------

Owen snapped awake once more from a short, fitful rest.

The house was still, dark, and quiet. It was two in the morning. His breath hitched, but he couldn't figure out what had woken him up this time. It hadn't been one of those stress noises, that "exploding head" thing Dr. Saetang had told him about. No, but he certainly wished it had been when he'd woken up a few hours ago. He wasn't looking forward to another apology over breakfast, another weekend spent staying at Beto's as long as he could. He liked Beto, and he liked Beto's cousin Isadora, and he liked Beto's tías. They always doted over him like he was their own son, and he'd wished with a little guilt at times that he actually _could_ be their son. They clearly did a good job raising Beto and Isadora, after all.

But he hated knowing that he'd always have to go back home eventually.

He suddenly found his attention yanked back to the fact that he was awake again, and this time, he caught it: A door clicking shut. The door to the garage, he realized, as it was too far down the hall to be his parents' bedroom door. His brain went wild for a few brief moments with fear, wondering if someone had broken in. Who would? The Samuels house had a reputation on this block, people heard the fights and stayed the hell away. He knew it was why Beto's tías let him stay over so often, and so long.

He heard faint rustling and gentle, padding footsteps. Someone was trying to be quiet, but he realized the noise was from his mom's slippers. He'd heard it before. He relaxed for a moment, but tensed up as the footsteps stopped again. Just outside his room.

Seconds ticked by, and he waited for the sound of his doorknob turning in the darkness.

Instead, he only heard a soft exhale, and his mom moved past his room, back to the living room, without another sound. At least, that Owen could hear.

He let out a held breath and closed his eyes again. His mom had probably just needed to get some socks or something from the dryer out in the garage. Her feet got cold a lot, and he sometimes wondered why, just why didn't she wear socks to bed all the time if she knew her feet would be cold? She just woke herself up and would have to waste time going back to sleep again. He knew she hadn't wanted to wake him to apologize. No, it could wait until the morning.

Still feeling unease in the back of his stomach, Owen let his eyes slide shut again... he was so tired. So tired... he'd be sleeping Saturday away, most likely. Maybe he'd be napping over at Beto's. The Garcias were glad to let him do that. If he couldn't leave for Castanet, maybe _they_ could take him in...

He wouldn't wake again for a few more hours.

\------------------------

When his eyes shot open again, it was to daylight and a bloodcurdling scream.

As always, he froze in place in bed, clutching his pillow tight. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammered mercilessly against his ribcage, and he swore he could feel every last one of his blood cells moving through his body. His science teacher, Mr. Agba, had said that blood cells were so small that you _couldn't_ feel them moving around inside of you, but Owen knew that grown-ups had been wrong before. He lived it every single day. So Mr. Agba was wrong _now._ He felt it.

But he would be okay. Dr. Saetang had said so. It was normal, perfectly normal, and this was just that exploding head thing acting up again. It would pass, and he hadn't really heard his dad let out that heart-wrenching wail just now.

He wasn't listening. No, he wasn't, or at least he was _trying_ not to listen. It was hard to ignore, but he had to do his best. Maybe someday, he could block it out for good.

It was eight twenty-seven. Owen didn't want to get out of bed, though. Not yet. No, he couldn't. He was still frozen, so he had to wait for it to pass.

But this time, the imagined sounds were going on for a lot longer. So much longer than normal. His dad was shouting his mom's name over and over– _"Melissa, Melissa, no! No, Melissa, no, God, no, Melissa, please, no, God! Oh my God, please, no, no, no, no!_ "–and Owen swallowed hard. Maybe he was still asleep, and it was a really bad nightmare. He had those sometimes, too, and they always felt like real life, until he opened his eyes. But he never could wake up when he wanted to. He only woke up when his brain decided for him.

So he stayed there in bed, laying on his side, pillow clutched to his chest in trembling, white-knuckled hands as he heard his dad crying. As he _imagined_ his dad crying, he corrected himself, because all it was was just a bad dream, or his head was exploding again and just really acting up this time and going on longer than normal. He wasn't sure if it did that, but it probably could. Maybe he would take Dr. Saetang's advice and talk to Beto about his troubles. Or maybe Tía Rosario, she was a really good listener. Talking to her always made him feel so warm. Tía Esmeralda was nice, too, but she could be really stern sometimes. Maybe it was because she was a college teacher. Owen wasn't sure he could talk to her about this stuff. But he'd talk to someone. He'd do it later.

He let himself get lost in his thoughts, noticing the noise outside his room fading away. _Because it's not real, it's not there, everything's okay and you'll go to Beto's after you get up and call his place,_ he told himself. But he didn't know why he was trembling as he thought this. He realized, with some shock, that he'd _been_ trembling since he woke up. He also had to go to the bathroom so badly, but couldn't bring himself to slip out from under his covers and go. _If I am awake. Maybe I'm still in a bad dream. But how would I know?_

It was quiet, but not peaceful. From the corner of his eye, the minutes slid by slowly on his clock, like snow melting away drip by drip. He thought he heard his dad muttering to himself. He didn't hear his mom's voice. Maybe she'd left to go stay with her friend Gina from work, who lived in the next town over. "Gina from work," as his mom always called her, but he had to call her "Miss Gina," because it was just polite. His mom stayed with Miss Gina sometimes when the fights got real bad. His dad never seemed to stay with anyone. He was always here at home, or always at work.

The muttering faded. Owen was still wide awake, _maybe_ wide awake but probably not, probably still having a stupid, horrible nightmare, and paralyzed with fear. He hated these dreams where he couldn't move a muscle. He felt so trapped and helpless. At least when he was awake, he could escape until nightfall, when he had to come back and wonder if his parents would fight again that night, or if the noises would bother him as he was falling asleep or just before waking up. Dr. Saetang had told him this exploding head thing had no cure yet, but to try talking, and sleeping at the same time every night. He knew she knew it wouldn't happen.

_But I'll try talking, at least,_ he thought. _I have that._

His dad was being quiet, and Owen wondered if the dream would change at some point. Or maybe his head was done exploding for now, and he'd fall back asleep soon. He wanted to get out of bed and leave, _now,_ but something told him he really needed to stay there. No matter how much he tried to reassure himself, he had a growing feeling inside of him that something was very wrong. He was safe in this room for now. Nobody would hurt him in here. He'd be okay. He'd know when he could leave his bed and tell his parents he'd be back later, and go to Beto's. Maybe he could sleep over, since it was Saturday.

Time passed, and the light shifted outside his bedroom window. It grew brighter as the sun rose and floated through the sky. He heard cars passing, dogs barking, kids playing. Everything felt so normal just outside his house, in that sunlit neighborhood. Why was he inside, so cold and terrified? It was okay, he was just imagining it. The doctor told him so. He felt his pants grow wet as he was unable to hold his bladder anymore, and he whimpered at the disgusting warmth spreading across his Spongebob pajama pants. Was he just imagining this, too? He hated wetting the bed. He was too old for it. He knew when he told his mom, she'd understand, and change the sheets, and throw these in the wash. His dad would sigh and shake his head. That would start another argument.

Wouldn't it?

Maybe they were out there, making up now. Maybe his mom was calling from Miss Gina's. Owen didn't hear his dad talking on the phone, but maybe he was taking the call in another room. He didn't hear the TV, either.

Hours passed in agonizingly long, slow strips, and Owen finally heard another noise. _But maybe I'm still asleep and this'll wake me up this time,_ he thought to himself as the sounds of his dad's footfalls passed by his bedroom door, heavy on the carpeted hallway floor. A chill swept through Owen's body when he heard the door to the garage squeak open.

He didn't hear it shut, but minutes later, he did hear his dad pass by again, _thump, thump, thump_ toward the living room. Slower and heavier. Owen didn't like it.

The footsteps paused... then came back over by Owen's door, where they stopped once more.

Owen swallowed hard, and the trembling returned in full force. He watched the doorknob, which stayed perfectly still and quiet.

"...No..."

Owen heard his dad mutter something else under his breath, but that one word was all he caught as he lay there, wet and afraid in his bed. He tried to pay no mind to the smell of his own urine, but he couldn't help but wonder if he was suddenly imagining an even worse smell on the other side of his bedroom wall.

It was two thirty-four now.

And Owen jumped again as he heard it.

It wasn't glass this time.

It was louder, so much louder, even from the living room. It was a sound he'd never heard in the house before, except on TV. Crisp, sharp, so very loud, somewhere between a bang and a pop. He'd gone hunting with his grandpa before, in the forest surrounding Castanet. He knew the sound of a gunshot anywhere.

_It's in my head,_ he reasoned as his breathing grew faster and shallower. _It's in my head. It's the exploding head thing again, I'm just waking up and imagining it. I'm not gonna listen to it. It's just my stupid head because I can't sleep here, I'll sleep at Beto's tonight and I won't have to worry about it, that's all, they're not speaking to each other so I guess I'd better be careful when I talk to them, I don't want to upset them, I don't want them to fight again. I hope they make up while I'm gone. I'll talk to someone at Beto's when I go there and then I'll sleep._ _I should probably call them soon so I can ask, though, before it gets too late, I don't want to call when they're starting dinner or something. Maybe I can call Grandma and Grandpa while I'm there and talk to them, too... I want to go back to Castanet..._

And still, he couldn't bring himself to move. Not just yet. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him to stay put just a little longer, for his own good. _Nothing good will happen if you get out of bed now, Owen,_ it told him, _so just a little longer._

He stared at the wall across from his bed, feeling a numbness weighing his stomach down as time dragged on and the room began to darken and tint a deep gold with the late afternoon sun's descent.

Finally, something in him told him he needed to get out of bed now. It was time. Quarter after four, he slid out, gingerly peeling off his soiled pajamas and underwear and tossing them onto his bed. His mom would wash all of them later, he told himself as he dressed in fresh, clean clothes and put his socks and shoes on. He wasn't sure they'd cleaned up the glass yet. Hopefully they had. Still, he knew there was always the chance that a tiny, overlooked shard would find his foot if he let it. Plus, at least he'd already be dressed to go to Beto's.

As he made to turn his lamp on, he paused, looking over at his bedroom door.

No light shone from the gap at the bottom.

Trying to swallow the anxiety rising in his belly, Owen clicked his lamp on, walking toward the door on jellied legs. He needed to open that door. He just didn't want to.

As the door clicked and swung open, loud in the overwhelming silence, he took a few tentative steps out into the dark hallway. No lights on anywhere in the house, but deep, golden rays from the setting sun leaked in through the windows to throw a dying glow upon the shadows in the living room. On the other end of the hall, the door to the garage was wide open, inky black like the mouth of some monster beckoning him inside. A few feet away from his own room, his parents' bedroom door was ajar, and just as dark. He didn't hear his mom's light snoring, or the white noise machine they played when they slept.

Owen tried not to look. He made his way to the kitchen, blocking the living room from his mind, or at least trying to. Because he knew something was very wrong in the living room. Terribly wrong, shadowy shapes he didn't dare acknowledge. It wasn't just his ears anymore, he knew now that his eyes were playing terrible tricks on him, too. And he knew he could only just ignore them. They would go away if he pretended they weren't there, unnervingly still, paying him no mind as he slipped around the kitchen counter and made for the fridge.

There was, at least, no glass on the floor for the sunlight to gleam off of. His parents had cleaned up after all. He just hoped they made up tonight. He opened the fridge, poured himself a cup of water, and drank it quickly. His throat felt so dry. He poured another cup, and drained it just as fast, hoping it would calm the panicked twisting of his stomach and the prickling feeling sweeping down his spine and up the back of his neck. His throat tightened. His fingers tingled. His hands, his arms, his legs, all shook.

And he heard the next sound.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz._

_Buzz, buzz, buzz._

_Buzz, buzz, buzz._

He was listening this time. He couldn't ignore it. He knew what it was, and he wanted to tune it out, but he couldn't.

Blinking back tears, Owen turned towards the source of the noise, still blocking the dimly-illuminated living room from his peripheral vision. The glow of his mom's phone in the darkened room stuck out like a sore thumb, and Miss Gina's name flashed on the screen for a few more seconds before going to voicemail. His mom had eight missed calls, and eleven missed text messages.

Text message number twelve popped up seconds later.

_Melissa please answer me! R u ok?! I'm coming over if u don't answer,_ said Miss Gina's latest message.

"Please don't," Owen said quietly, startling himself with the sound of his own voice piercing the thick, oppressive silence that once again blanketed the room. "Please, Miss Gina... please don't come here, please..."

His voice cracked, and he planted his hands on the counter as he felt like his legs might give way beneath him. The cup he'd been holding clattered to the floor–bright pink plastic, a cheap and quick replacement for one of many glasses broken in a fight.

He knew he couldn't answer for his mom.

But neither could she.

Trying to fight back the tears beginning to blur his vision, trying to stop the hyperventilating he felt coming on–he knew that was the word for it, Stephanie Harris did it when she had panic attacks, she'd told him–he choked out a sob. It took a great deal of effort for him to make his way back around the counter, the buzzing of his mom's phone forgotten as he finally looked into the living room, at those horribly wrong, deathly still shapes shadowed and lit by the dying sun.

His mom's back was to him and shades of black, her front outlined in a crimson glow. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her legs unmoving and feet dangling above the couch. Her head was slumped forward at a disturbing and unnatural angle, face obscured by thick curtains of red hair, and her body was held up by a length of rope tight around her neck and wrapped around one of the rafters.

His dad lay facedown, clutching his shotgun in one hand. The rug he was laying on now had a large, dark splotch around his head. Owen tried not to look too closely at his dad. He knew nobody's head should look like that, but the outline of the large, ragged hole in the back was still too morbidly fascinating not to finally catch his attention.

In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if he was free now, as his vision focused on the grim sight before him. He hated himself for thinking it, he knew it was such a horrible thing to think right now. He thought of his grandparents. He thought about the fact that they were his mom's parents. And their daughter was... their daughter was...

He sank to his knees, head spinning, numb with shock. There it was again, the hyperventilation. He thought of the things he'd heard while laying there, in his bed, stock-still and torn between moving and staying put. The horrifying realizations swamped him, smothered him, pressing and pressing until he retched loudly on the floor, teary-eyed and snot-nosed. The sound seemed completely amplified in that dark, empty house of death. His mom wouldn't check his temperature now when he threw up. His dad wouldn't heat some chicken soup up for him and watch cartoons in the living room with him anymore. And he'd never, ever have to hear them fighting with each other again.

He vomited again, paying no heed to the frantic pounding on the front door, kneeling there in the darkened house, mere feet from his parents' bodies. He heard voices–Miss Gina, Tía Esmeralda–calling out for his parents, for him. He heard glass, and was too dazed to jump this time. A hand reached through, unlocking the door, and the women rushed in. He heard Tía Esmeralda gasp, he heard Miss Gina's grief-stricken wailing, he heard footsteps thundering over and felt arms wrapping him tight as Tía Esmeralda shouted, "Call the police, Gina, call the police!"

He wanted so badly to just wish it all away, cram it back into the corner of his mind where he could play it off as just his imagination again. Just a series of terrible sounds playing upon his stress, like Dr. Saetang said, just hallucinations waking him up. But as Tía Esmeralda picked him up and rubbed his back, murmuring soothing words to him beneath his confused and terrified sobs–"Shhh, _mijo_ , it's okay, it'll be okay"–Owen knew that he'd been awake all that time, listening to his family's life finish falling apart as clear as day, no matter how hard he'd tried not to.


End file.
